


Last Call

by Agapanthus_Enthusiast



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: College, F/M, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agapanthus_Enthusiast/pseuds/Agapanthus_Enthusiast
Summary: "Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, before she goes to bed."A collection of various last calls from Lara Jean to Peter. Set post-Always and Forever, Lara Jean.





	1. First Last Call

It’s my first night at UNC, and I’m alone. After the last box has been unloaded from the car, after Daddy and Trina and Kitty have given me my final hugs and departed, after I’ve hung up all my dresses and put my toiletries caddy in the bathroom down the hall and made my bed and changed into my pajamas, I lean on my desk and take a deep breath. My roommate Priya is flying in from California, and she won’t get here until tomorrow morning, so her side of the room is still bare and her standard-issue blue vinyl mattress looks weirdly naked. In contrast, my side already feels like me – I’ve hung up fairy lights and the floral bunting I sewed myself, Command-stripped all my photos to the wall, and stocked the bottom drawer of my desk with my scrapbooking supplies. And I feel...I don’t know how I feel. Happy and sad and excited and scared and nostalgic and hopeful, all at once. I love beginnings. I hate endings. This feels like both.

I grab my phone to check the time and am startled to realize it’s almost midnight. I also have two texts from Peter that I missed during my several-hours-long efficiency tornado of organizing and decorating.

 **_Peter Kavinsky:_ ** _Send me a pic of your room once it’s all set up!_

 **_Peter Kavinsky:_ ** _Also, no worries if you can’t call tonight, I saw you this morning so it doesn’t count. But the contract goes into effect tomorrow, and be warned, there will be consequences for failure to meet the terms of our agreement._

Before I’m even really aware of what my fingers are doing, I’m FaceTiming him. He picks up after just two rings.

“Hey, college girl,” he says, smiling at me, and immediately, equal parts joy and longing fill my chest. I miss him. Already, I _miss_ him. I can feel tears threatening to spill out, but I furiously blink them back. I’m not going to make Peter regret being at UVA without me, and I’m not going to let myself give up on UNC before I even start. I’m going to be happy, dammit. I’m going to give Chapel Hill my best shot.

“Hey, college boy,” I say back, and if my voice comes out a little croaky, Peter either doesn’t notice or knows me well enough not to comment on it. I clear my throat and raise an eyebrow at him. “‘Consequences for failure to meet the terms of our agreement’? Really?”

“Get used to it, Covey. I’m pre-law, remember?”

“Yes. The key word being _pre._ You haven’t even started class yet,” I point out.

“But I _have_ seen _Legally Blonde_ , thanks to you, so you only have yourself to blame,” he says.

I crack up in spite of the mixed emotions warring within me. Peter has that effect on me, even over FaceTime. He’s like my own personal sun, burning all the clouds away. “So? What _are_ these consequences?”

Peter levels a wicked grin at the camera that makes me blush. “That’s confidential.”

“Objection!”

“Overruled. How was moving in?”

“It was fine. Everything’s pretty much unpacked, and my roommate doesn’t move in until tomorrow, so I have the place to myself tonight. How was practice?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Peter says, and I feel a little weight lift off my heart. Preseason training has been kicking his butt since it started this week, and I was so worried that between watching the meteor shower last night and seeing me off this morning, he wouldn’t get enough sleep. “The team’s kind of falling into place, and I really like the guys. Well, most of them. But wait, I want to see your room! Gimme a tour.”

I open my mouth to ask him what he meant about the team, but decide against it. I’ll ask him tomorrow, or the day after. Tonight, our first night of official long-distance, is not the night for delving into any negative emotions. I want only positive vibes to traverse the 190 miles between us. So I hop off my desk and grin at the camera. “Hey, MTV, I’m Lara Jean. Welcome to my crib!”

Peter laughs as I switch to the not-front-facing camera. “So here are my _super dope_ fairy lights…and the _totally sick_ bunting I sewed that day you made us marathon all the Godfather movies…”

“Ohhh, so that’s what that was,” Peter says. “It looks way less grandma-y when it’s all hung up.”

“I told you it would!” I pull open my scrapbooking drawer and point the phone inside. “This is my _incredibly rad_ stash of pinking shears and Mod Podge and washi tape…” I close the drawer and turn to the wall next to my bed. “And these are the…um…” I wrack my brain for more 2000’s-era MTV slang.

“Clutch? Phat? Bangin'? Off the chizzain?” Peter suggests helpfully.

“Thank you, the _mega phat_ photos of my _hella clutch_ friends and family and my _majorly bangin’_ but also completely ridiculous boyfriend,” I finish, zooming in on the absurd photo that Peter, per our contract, has stipulated should occupy pride of place on my wall.

Of all of the very cute options we have, Peter just _had_ to choose this one. I was already going to bring our prom portrait, the _Sixteen Candles_ homage we posed for that same night, a collage of all our matching Senior Week and Halloween costumes, and one picture of me kissing his cheek after a lacrosse game he won, in which Peter looks sweaty and exhilarated and adorable (I just look sweaty). But Peter insisted on the addition of one that I wasn’t even in – a random, poorly lit shirtless mirror selfie he sent me when I was in Korea, his six-pack flexed in all its tanned glory. As if this were not bad enough, he had this terrible selfie blown up and professionally framed. I wish I were kidding.

I shrieked aloud in horror when Peter unveiled it, while we were hanging out at his dorm room at UVA on a rare evening when he didn’t have practice (student athletes get to move in two weeks early for preseason). Far from being deterred by my reaction, he pointed at me triumphantly. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re going to have guy friends, and that’s totally cool, obviously, but statistically, some of them will catch feelings for you because you’re, you know, you, and when they come by your room for the first time, the first thing they see will be _this_ , and they’ll be like, ‘Whoa, Lara Jean must be really obsessed with this guy if she’s into him enough to want to frame this tacky-ass picture, so maybe let’s just ask out Susie from Bio 101 instead.’”

I opened my mouth to try and unpack that logic, and then closed it again, because honestly, what was the point? Feebly, I said, “You can’t make me hang this up. It’s ridiculous. _You’re_ ridiculous.”

Peter held up a finger as if he had been expecting this argument. “May I remind you of the last page of my scrapbook, which, I might also remind you, was placed there by _you?_ ”

I sighed, because of course I did remember the last page of his scrapbook: a photocopy of the last page of my yearbook. Our amended long-distance-relationship contract, with both of our signatures at the bottom.

“Article Three: ‘Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter’s choosing on her wall,’” Peter read aloud, and smirked at me, holding up the selfie. “Well, this is the picture of Peter’s choosing. Pretty sure it's legally binding. Sorry 'bout it.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“But you _loooove_ me,” he sang. “Admit it.”

“Uh-uh.”

Peter carefully placed the photo back on his desk and then turned around and pounced on me, pinning to the bed and tickling me mercilessly until I yelped “Okay, okay, yes, I love you, stop it,” at which point he stopped tickling me and slowly ran his hands up my body until he was holding my face, and said “I love you, too." Then we made out until his roommate Anders barged in and told us to get a room, and Peter was like “I AM in my room,” and for a minute I was seriously concerned that I had Yoko Ono’d their budding friendship, but then Anders spotted the Tupperware of snickerdoodles I had brought, and long story short, we’re all cool now, and Anders has promised that whenever I visit Peter, we can have the room to ourselves as long as I provide compensation by way of baked goods.

Anyway, every time I look at that terrible framed photo, it makes me think of that day and smile. Not that I’ll admit it to Peter.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Peter says now, sounding much too gleeful. “Anyone who sees this will for sure be like, ‘oh, crap, she’s taken.’ And you’ll get to look at my abs every day. They look even better than I remembered, actually.”

“Do you need to be alone with yourself right now? If you want, I can just go, and then your phone screen will basically be a mirror.”

I’m quite proud of myself for that dig, especially when Peter lets out a surprised peal of laughter. “Damn, Covey. Savage. And _dirty_. College has already changed you.”

“Well, we all have to grow up sometime,” I say.

“Go back to front-facing.”

I do, and for a moment, we both smile at each other like dorks.

“I should probably go,” Peter says, breaking the silence. “I have practice in the morning, and then a bunch of freshman orientation stuff, since everyone else is finally moving in.”

“Yeah, I should go to sleep too,” I say, and then hesitate. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

“Why are you asking for permission? You ask me weird shit all the time, Covey.”

“It’s more of a request than a question.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What is it? Do you want me to tattoo your face on my back?”

I want to change course and say something jokey, like, no, actually, I want him to tattoo my face on his butt, but I’m suddenly feeling so homesick and Peter-sick, and I don’t want my first last call to end, and the words that drop out of my mouth are, “Will you fall asleep with me? Like, I get into bed and you get into bed and we stay on the phone until we both fall asleep?”

He looks at me tenderly, so tenderly, and I know he can see the uncertainty and fear and vulnerability that I’ve been trying so hard to cover up for his sake, but it’s all right, because I can see those things in his face too, and we’ll get through them. Separately, and together. “Of course,” he says. "Then we won't have to say good night."

Peter falls asleep first, and I lie awake for a little while longer, listening to his slow, staticky breath coming out of my speakers. And for a moment, as I am lulled to sleep too, it doesn’t feel like there are 190 miles between us at all.


	2. Drunk In Love

If you told me yesterday that in exactly 24 hours I’d be determinedly chugging a 40 of beer that tastes almost as bad as kombucha, after having allowed a bottle of said 40 to be duct-taped to each of my hands, I would’ve called you crazy. And yet here I am, standing with with fifteen other first-years in a crowd of cheering Asian Student Association upperclassmen, attempting to complete a game of Edward Fortyhands. 

Before she taped the bottles to each of our hands in the kitchen of the ASA house an hour or so ago, Angela Hong, the ASA events chair, gave us a whole lecture about we didn’t have to do anything we didn’t want to, that nobody was going to be pressured to drink, that if at any point we felt uncomfortable or sick, we could take a break or stop. “We’re not a frat,” she said, jabbing the roll of duct tape into the air for emphasis. “This is not a contest, it’s not mandatory, it’s just a dumb tradition someone started, like, six years ago, for bonding purposes. So seriously, if anyone doesn’t want to drink the 40’s, it’s no big deal, just hang out and sing the fight song when they’re done. That’s what Cory did when he was a freshman, and he’s president now. I drank, like, five sips of a 40 and was like 'nope.' But if you want to do it, raise your hands.”

I almost left my hands by my sides. In fact, I almost made an excuse and left right then and there. But then some kind of crazy voice in my head went,  _ Come on, Lara Jean, live a little.  _ It sounded like Chris, the sole reason I now have SnapChat, and it was the thought of finally being able to tell her that I did something stupid that made me throw both of my hands in the air before I could reconsider.

And now, an hour later, here I am. And I think I am bonding with the other first-years! At the very least, we’ve all introduced ourselves and commiserated over how warm the beer is getting and how terrible it tastes. Everyone is already most of the way through their second bottle, whereas I’m only halfway through my first one and I’m so bloated and full that I’m not even going to attempt the second one for at least another hour, if ever, but I feel proud of myself for even getting this far. I also feel kind of drunk, despite the incredibly low alcohol content. And my face feels extremely hot.

“Ohmygod, Lara Jean, you have such intense Asian glow right now,” Tarynn says from next to me. She’s a new friend who lives on my hall, and we have bonded over a shared love of crafting, though she’s more about home decor and art than baking and scrapbooking. She’s also pre-med, crazy smart, and, I’m learning, somewhat crazy in general.

“I do?” I say, touching my cheek with my wrist and accidentally bopping myself in the head with the bottle. “Ow! Well, you do too.”

It’s true. She looks like a stoplight. A stoplight who just belched louder than I ever would’ve thought possible. She looks startled for a moment, and then bursts into snorty peals of laughter that make me dissolve into giggles as well.

“Okay! It’s been an hour. Everybody tipsy enough to sing?” Angela shouts. “Yeah? Ready? I’m a Tar Heel born—”

“—I’m a Tar Heel bred, and when I die, I’m a Tar Heel dead,” we first-years sing, in varying degrees of slurring, pitch, and volume. “So it’s rah, rah, Carolina-lina—”

The rest of the upperclassmen join in for the rest, and then we all cheer, and I’m cheering too, exhilarated and still not quite able to believe I’m a part of such a fun, dumb, stereotypically college moment. If Peter were here, he wouldn’t believe it either.

Wait. Peter. Crap. I forgot to call him before Tarynn and I left for the welcome party.

The traditional/light-humiliation portion of the evening is over, and someone starts blasting Cardi B as the first-years disperse into the crowded house, a few of them, like me, still attached to a partially full bottle or two.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Tarynn says. “That shitty beer went right through me. Wanna come?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “I have to call Peter.”

She laughs. “You sure that’s a good idea right now?”

“Why not? It’s like what they say: if you can’t handle me at my best, then you don’t deserve me at my worst.” I frown. “Wait, that’s not the quote.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Tarynn says, then wanders off in search of the bathroom, one empty bottle and one full one still taped to her hands.

I find a table and rest the half-empty bottle taped to my left hand on it, then start trying to rip off the duct tape on my right hand with my teeth. It’s slow going, to say the least.

“Need help?” someone says, and I look up to see a guy with trendy-looking glasses, who looks like he wants to laugh but is restraining himself out of politeness.

“Thanks,” I say, and stretch my right hand out to him.

“No problem. When I did this, I made the mistake of actually trying to finish them both, and then I spent the rest of the night puking into a trash can with bottles still taped to both of my hands,” he says, and I laugh. “I’m Alex.”

“I’m Lara Jean. I’m a freshman. Obviously.”

“Hi, Lara Jean the freshman,” Alex says. “What are you studying?”

“ECL,” I say. I used to say the full name, “English and comparative literature,” every single time someone asked, but in the three weeks I’ve been at UNC, I’ve learned the acronym. “What about you?”

“Physics,” Alex says. “How are you liking UNC so far?”

“I love it!” I say, and am a little shocked to realize that I really mean it. “I was a little nervous about this because honestly, usually I’d be in bed reading right now. But I’m actually glad I came!”

“I’m glad you came too,” Alex says as the bottle finally comes loose from my hand. He sets it on the table, and I wiggle my fingers in relief. “Want me to take the other one off too?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” I say. “I might have more later.”

Alex laughs. “Are you sure? I’m happy to get you a drink that’s not bottom-shelf beer.”

“This is the authentic ASA first-year experience, right?” I say, digging my phone out of my purse with my free hand and starting to head for the stairs. “This is the only time I’m ever going to do this. I can’t cheat!”

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I have to make a call!” I say.

“But you’re coming back, right?” he calls after me.

“Yeah,” I say vaguely over my shoulder, and stumble upstairs, where the lighting’s better and it’s a bit quieter, to FaceTime Peter.

He picks up in what seems to be a dark, loud, crowded room of some sort, and I hear him faintly say, “Be back in a few.”

“Wifey got you whipped, Kavinksy?” a deep male voice calls out.

“Eat a dick, Yardley,” Peter calls back, and it makes me laugh, which is how I know I’m drunk, because normally I’d tsk at Peter for being so crude. I squint at the phone as he walks through wherever he is, and catch glimpses of many cans of beer and bottles of harder alcohol and something that looks like a plank of wood with three shot glasses glued to it. Then a door opens and closes, and the noise fades away as Peter’s face comes into full view, beautiful even in the yellow light of what I assume is the porch light.

“What’s up, Cov—whoa,” he says, his eyes widening. “Why are you so red?”

“Haven’t you heard of Asian glow?”

His eyes widen even more. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” I say automatically, and then pause. “Wait. Yeah. I am,” I say, and start laughing.

Peter laughs too. “Wow. What did it this time? Two sips of apple martini and a whiff of tequila?”

“Noooo,” I say, drawing it out. “Just beer. Lots of beer. Are  _ you  _ drunk?”

“Nah,” Peter says. “I’ve only had, like, two shots of tequila.”

“Your tolerance is amazing,” I say. “Although I’m kind of happy to be a cheap date, because beer is gross.”

Peter snorts. “Good job looking on the bright side. By the way, other than the glow, you look super hot.”

“Do I?” I say, stretching the phone out so I can inspect myself in my front-facing camera. It’s still warm enough to not need tights, so I’m wearing a black dress that looks a lot like Wednesday Addams’ usual getup, except shorter and with a lace collar, paired with my floral Doc Martens. My face, as mentioned, is indeed incredibly flushed, and my mascara is a little smudgey, but oh well. 

“Yeah. I mean, you always do, but—whoa. Wait. Is that a forty taped to your hand? Are you playing Edward Fortyhands?” Peter says, in a tone of utter disbelief. “Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I say. “It’s an Asian Student Association first-year tradition. One-time only.” Just to really freak him out, I take a sip from the 40. 

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, starting to look alarmed now. “You didn’t come here alone, did you?”

“No, of course not! I came with Tarynn,” I say. “She’s peeing somewhere. I also have a new friend, Alex, and he’s a physics major and he untaped my hand.”

Peter shakes his head, looking torn between amusement and concern. “Well, call me when you get home, okay? If I don’t hear from you by two AM, I’m going to figure out your roommate’s number and call her so she can make sure you’re not choking on your own vomit.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t mention it. So wait, who’s Alex?”

“I don’t know, some upperclassman guy I met like a minute ago. What are you doing tonight?”

“It’s one of the guys’ birthdays,” Peter says. “Patrick Yardley. He’s 21.”

He says the name flatly. Too flatly. “You don’t like him,” I say.

“I don’t  _ not  _ like him,” Peter hedges. “He’s just, like...he’s all the worst stereotypes of our team smushed into one person. Like, he’s super arrogant, and kind of a dick, and he thinks that just because he’s a talented middie, he’s entitled to any pu—uh, any girl he wants.”

“So...kind of like a darkest-timeline version of you?” 

Peter winces. “God, Covey, is that really how I come across?”

“No!” I say hastily. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just, you’re, like, confident, and yes, okay, you can be a  _ little  _ cocky sometimes, but those are things I love about you. Just, this guy sounds like the worst possible extreme of that. Also misogynistic, which you aren’t, obviously.”

“I see,” Peter says, not looking comforted at all. “And I guess  _ Alex _ isn’t cocky at all.”

I glare at the phone and take another, bigger sip of beer. “Like I said, I literally just met him. I don’t know anything about him other than that he’s a physics major and that doing Edward Fortyhands made him throw up when he was a freshman. Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!”

“Oh, come on.” I take another swig. “You knew I was going to meet guys in college, Peter! You can’t have this reaction every time I do .”

He sighs. “Sorry. I’m just grouchy. I wish I was at your party instead of this one.”

“Asian Student Association,” I remind him. “The key word here being 'Asian.' But also, you  _ are _ here for it. You’re here right now. Here you are!”

I boop the phone with my taped hand, and Peter cracks up. “Okay, you should maybe definitely slow down on that 40,” he says.

“Lara Jean?” someone says. I look up, and speak of the devil, it’s Alex. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” I say at the same time that Peter says, “Who is that?”

“Are you FaceTiming someone right now?” Alex asks, looking bemused. “C’mon, you’re missing the party! Hang up and live in the moment!”

Peter looks annoyed, and I think I’m drunker than I was before, because I feel like my brain has been submerged in a jar of molasses, leaving me with literally no idea of what to say or do in this moment. Some part of my lizard brain decides that I should hold up the phone so that Peter’s facing Alex and say—more slurrily than I expected to—“This is my new friend Alex!”

“Uh, hey,” Peter says, sounding unenthusiastic in the extreme.

“Hi, Lara Jean’s friend,” Alex says, waving. 

“Boyfriend,” Peter corrects.

I can’t see Peter’s face, but I suspect he’s glaring at poor Alex with some amount of ferocity, because Alex looks a bit taken aback. “Right. Cool. Um, anyway, Lara Jean, your friend...Tara, I think? Was looking for you,” he says. 

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’ll come down and find her in a minute.”

“Cool,” Alex says again. “Um, see you later.”

He disappears back down the stairs, and Peter waits all of five seconds before saying, “Okay, that guy’s totally into you. And he’s good-looking. In, like, a Mark Zuckerberg kind of way.”

“Peter,” I say, starting to get annoyed now, “first of all, he is  _ not  _ into me, we met like five seconds ago. And I really couldn’t care less what way he’s good-looking.”

“I know, I know! I was just saying—”

I hear a door open on Peter’s end. “Peter?” a female voice says. “We’re about to play flip cup, and Andy says you said you’d be on our team. Oh, sorry, are you on the phone?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says, and he raises his phone so that a girl comes into frame. I can’t see what she’s wearing, but from the neck up at least, she has perfectly curled blond hair and perfect makeup and a perfect face—in short, every stereotype about Southern college girls come to life.

“Hi! I’m Emma,” she says, waving at the phone. 

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Lara Jean.”

“Oh, Peter’s girlfriend!” she says, and I wonder there’s a tiny note of surprise in her voice or if it’s just my old insecurities coming out again. “Nice to meet you! Sorry to bother y’all, I’ll just tell Andy we can play this round without you.”

Peter hesitates, and I quickly say, “No, no, Peter, you should go play. I have to go find Tarynn, anyway.”

Because I’m a cool girlfriend. I’m totally chill. I’m not at all jealous that this beautiful woman seems to know Peter well enough to be friends with his teammates and to want him on her flip cup team. Not even a little bit.

“Okay,” Peter says reluctantly. “Be careful, okay? Call me when you get home.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, and in the instant before he hangs up, I hear Emma coo, “Awww,” and feel a stab of irrational rage before I remind myself how cool and chill of a long-distance girlfriend I am. Because really, how can I lecture Peter about jealousy if I’m reading condescension and sexual tension into a simple “awww”?

Emma’s perfect face flashes across my mind, and I tip my head back to drain the last of my 40.

After extricating my hand from the remaining bottle, I find Tarynn downstairs, and I’m guessing she’s at least made some progress on her second 40 because both of her hands are now free and she is far, far more wasted than I am. I’m fairly certain our night is going to end with her retching into one of our dorm’s communal toilets, but for now, she’s having a whale of a time. We spend a while dancing and singing along to various mid-2000’s hits, and when “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from  _ Mulan _ comes on, literally everyone in the house stops what they’re doing to sing along.

Come 1 AM, I’ve somewhat sobered up, and I’m sitting on the couch with Tarynn, Alex, who has rejoined us, and a fellow first-year named Steve Chu, who Alex tells us has been friends with his family since he was born—Steve’s parents are Alex’s godparents, a detail that delights me, because I can’t imagine anything more adorable than a pair of people who are kind of almost brothers continuing to be best friends at college.

We are all arguing about the correct ranking of the Harry Potter books from best to worst (obviously, the right answer is 3, 7, 6, 4, 5, 1, 2, and Steve, another physics major, agrees with me, but Alex is adamant that  _ Half-Blood Prince  _ is the standout of the series, and Tarynn thinks the Mad-Eye Moody/Barty Crouch twist, as well as Hermione’s glow-up, makes  _ Goblet of Fire _ the clear winner), and after what Peter said, I’m on the lookout for any untoward behavior on Alex’s part. But he just seems like a normal friendly guy, and he and Steve are so easy to talk to that I almost forget I’ve known them for all of a few hours.

When Tarynn starts to fall asleep mid-extolling the virtues of Viktor Krum, I pull her to her feet. “We should probably get going,” I say to Alex. “See you at the next meeting?”

“Yeah!” he says. “Nice to meet you both.”

As we walk home, Tarynn, who is leaning quite a bit of her body weight on me, says, “That guy is tooootally into you.”

“Why do people keep saying that?” I say, a bit more irately than I mean to. 

“’Cause it’s obvious,” she says matter-of-factly. “I mean, you don’t have to  _ do  _ anything about it. Just, like, be aware in case we end up being friends. Which, I kinda hope so. I really liked him and Steve.”

“I did too,” I admit. But I don’t know if this is how friendships work in college—if we’ll actually hang out again, or if this was all just an alcohol-spurred social interaction that we’ll never replicate. The thought of that makes me a little sad.

As predicted, Tarynn vomits up the contents of her stomach as soon as we get to our hall bathroom. When she’s finished, I put her to bed with a glass of water, a cool washcloth over her head, and a trashcan next to her bed in case it turns out that there's anything left in her system (I feel like it’s unlikely considering the volume of puke I witnessed, but you never know). 

By the time I get to my own room, my roommate Priya is back from the club soccer welcome party she was at, and fast asleep. I change into my pajamas and then go out into the deserted lounge to call Peter. 

He picks up after a few rings, and I’m expecting him to be much drunker, and for the party to have escalated to much wilder levels. But to my surprise, he’s in his room, sitting in bed.

“Hey, you,” he says. “You got home okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A while ago, actually. I just had to take care of Tarynn.”

“Ah. Edward Fortyhands did her dirty?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “How was the rest of your night? I thought you’d still be at Patrick’s party.”

“Nah, I left pretty soon after I got off the phone with you,” Peter says. “But Anders is still there, and I think he’s trying to hook up with this one guy he was talking to, so if he seals the deal, I’ll have the room to myself tonight.”

“Thoughts and prayers,” I say, and Peter laughs. “Why’d you leave so early?”

“I just wasn’t feeling it,” he says, and I give him my I-know-that’s-not-all look until he relents. “You know how I said don’t not like Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I actually don’t  _ not _ not like Patrick.”

“What?”

“He’s just the worst,” Peter says, scowling. “He thinks LDRs are pointless based on the fact that his girlfriend dumped him last year for cheating on her, and he keeps telling me that I’m missing out on all the ‘talent’ at UVA—his words, not mine—which is fucking irritating enough, but tonight, I think it pissed him off that I blew off some of his party to talk to you, because afterward, he kept, like, shoving all these girls at me like he was trying to prove that he’s right, and it made me so mad that I cursed him out and then left.”

I blink at my phone, trying to process everything I just heard, and trying not to freak out at the knowledge that random UVA girls are apparently being shoved at my boyfriend willy-nilly. “Uh. Wow. He does sound like the worst.”

“He is, but it was stupid. I’ll have to fix things with him before practice tomorrow or it’ll just suck.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I indirectly caused drama on the UVA men’s lacrosse team.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Patrick’s just a sexist man-baby who won’t admit he regrets fucking things up with his ex.”

I hesitate, and then am unable to stop myself from asking, “Was Emma one of the girls he tried to set you up with?”

“Emma? No way,” Peter says, looking bemused. “She’s a junior, and she’s dating Andy. She's cool, though. I think you'd like her. She's a film studies major and she's really into those old movies you like.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, feeling irrationally relieved. At least she’s not among the nameless, faceless girls I didn’t know I was competing with.

“Why?” Peter raises his beautiful eyebrows high. “Are you jealous?”

“No!” I lie. “Just curious.”

“Sure, Covey.”

“I’m not! Anyway, you were jealous first,” I say defensively.

I’m expecting Peter to shoot back some kind of jokey retort, but he looks a bit ashamed. “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry, Lara Jean. I didn’t mean to be a dick about that guy. It’s not that I don’t trust you, or anything,” he says. “I just hate that he got to be there for your first-ever experience with Edward Fortyhands and I didn’t.”

I bite my lip. “It’s okay. And I’m sorry too,” I say. “I do trust you, no matter how many girls are thrown your way."

"I shouldn't have told you that," he says quickly.

"No, I'm glad you did. Honesty even if it's hard, remember? I just...I’m scared that Patrick’s going to end up being right. Aren’t you going to get FOMO about all the girls that are right there at UVA?”

“Not if you don’t get FOMO about all the boys that are at UNC,” Peter says. 

“Of course I won’t! None of them could hold a candle to you, anyway,” I say. “But let’s not pretend we’re never going to get jealous. I feel like we shouldn’t bottle it up, but we also shouldn’t take it out on innocent bystanders. Such as Alex.”

“Okay, again, I don't think Alex was an innocent bystander, seeing as he was objectively crushing on you. But fair point,” Peter says, chewing his lip. “Can we add it to the contract? ‘Peter and Lara Jean will do their best to avoid being jealous of each other's cool college friends, but if they are, they’ll tell each other’?”

I hold out my pinky toward the camera. “I’ll agree to those terms.”

Peter smiles and reaches out his pinky too. We virtually shake. “Then it’s a deal.”

“Just to be clear, though, I am not reliving a game of Edward Fortyhands just to satisfy your FOMO,” I say, and shudder. “I feel like my burps are going to taste like beer for the rest of my life.”

“Gross, Covey,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

I gasp. “Oh my God. Is this it? Have the tables turned? Am I finally grossing  _ you _ out?”

“Don’t get too excited,” Peter says. “I have many years of out-grossing you left in me.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” he says.

We chat for a little while longer, and then we say goodnight, and I brush my teeth and take off my makeup and get into bed, where I replay the words “many years” over and over in my head until I fall asleep.


End file.
